


R.F. (I) Corsica

by Sarah_Elmira_Royster_Poe



Series: The Geography of Europe [3]
Category: Cloud Atlas (2012), Cloud Atlas - David Mitchell, Maurice (1987), Maurice - E. M. Forster
Genre: Gen, M/M, poem
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-05-25
Updated: 2014-05-25
Packaged: 2018-01-26 12:03:25
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 357
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1687619
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Sarah_Elmira_Royster_Poe/pseuds/Sarah_Elmira_Royster_Poe
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>An epistle written by Robert Frobisher to Rufus Sixmith and Maurice Hall.</p>
            </blockquote>





	R.F. (I) Corsica

With a flick of my wrist  
I can rewrite centuries  
And I believe  
With your pen and ink  
You can shape the future

(What a pair we make.

Such a shame that –)

You are probably sitting at your small desk  
Hearing my voice  
Above all others  
Because my written words should speak louder that the shrieks of the Commons’ boys

Isn’t the separation by circumstance much sharper a blade than the inevitability of certain thrift?  
A rite of passage for us, then.  
We didn’t drift apart,  
Rather snatched away by careless hands  
Strapped, tied in these sturdy knots.

I climb every night on my bed,  
Locking the door  
– her night visits have become so cumbersome –  
I always leave he windows wide open  
Smelling the heavy moisture  
And reminisce these careless nights at Cambridge  
Or that game keeper watching you howling in the rain  
– no one believed you were playing the other day, mind you;  
They all saw the mud on your bedroom floor and everyone noticed your shiny shoes.

Mostly I remember the Corsican sky  
There was no running then  
No sticky fingered Jews with puffed wallets  
No heiresses with Egyptian queens for horses  
There were no syphilitic geniuses sucking your ink, your tapping fingers, your hummed notes  
– once  
long ago,  
they marched on top of my skin,  
crept inside my ribcage,  
as if they belonged –

Declaring and forgetting

Every night,  
I pick up my pen and imagine  
I can see the music from the dream with such perfect clarity  
We smash porcelain on the black and white tiled floor  
As we laugh in triumph

I still can feel you from that night at the Imperial  
When these ruffians made me leave so urgently  
But I think,  
In that staccato agony  
I think  
I took something from you  
With me  
– And I am not talking (only) about this silk (ridiculous) embroidered vest; it smells of your mathematical formulas and quite disapproval –

I know you shake your head and groan  
But I know you smile too  
That is why I love you

Go back to London for me  
And kiss the old city goodbye

Yours Eternally,  
R.F.


End file.
